


Balancing the Scales

by clutzycricket



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 17:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12347661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clutzycricket/pseuds/clutzycricket
Summary: Sequel to Tipping the Scales, where not even magic can keep Joffrey alive, nor can it keep Tyrion from getting in trouble. (Oops!)





	Balancing the Scales

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SecondStarOnTheLeft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Tipping the Scales](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10426365) by [clutzycricket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clutzycricket/pseuds/clutzycricket). 



**One.**

 

Jynessa Blackmont hides a sigh as the argument continues. It is late, and she is approaching the level of tiredness where her vision blurs and her mind grows muddled. Even now, though, her little brother finds it annoyingly easy to hold up the spell to keep the Spider’s little birds from hearing their words. And Deria is biting her lip and looking from Prince Oberyn to Ellaria to everyone else, looking lost in a way she never does in the Water Gardens. 

 

So Jynessa will not try to sleep, she will not comment on the fact that her mother, the Prince, and the other lords and knights are bickering like children. Because Deria is her dearest friend, and she will need the support.

 

Though it would be a better support if she were alert enough to think.

 

“We will solve nothing tonight, my lords,” Ellaria said, finally, with a wave of her hands. The movement sets off a chime of bracelets and fine bells attached, a charmed gift of some sort no doubt. “Cersei Lannister’s son is dead by poison, and Tyrion Lannister is in the cells. No suspicion is attached to any of us, nor shall it be.”

 

“Yet,” one of the men murmur. Jynessa’s mother sends him a sharp look. 

 

“We must let the trial play out, and proceed as if we expect the Lannisters to act as treacherous opportunists,” Deria says, finally. “If they turn against each other, all the better, but Prince Doran did not wish us to overplay our hand just yet.” She gave a slightly mocking smile. “We still must tally up the Lannister’s debts, my lords and ladies, and I suspect a few careful words may bear some quite useful fruit.”

 

The murmurs picked up, but they stood and walked off, letting the spell dissipate. 

 

**Two.**

 

Margaery watches her ladies with a suitably downcast expression. After all, King Joffrey is dead, leaving her a widow and yet still a maid.

 

Again.

 

There is of course the risk that no one will want her after this- the odds of her marrying Tommen Baratheon are so very long. Even if Sansa is the only Stark left, there are far too many people who will be unhappy with the Lannisters and how they rule for peace to hold sway for very long, and her child betrothed will most likely not live to become a man.

 

It makes her sad- he is a sweet child, with none of Joffrey’s cruelty, and in a kinder world he would have been the elder son, and they would have been a striking couple, one that the smallfolk would have adored and the nobles danced around. 

 

(In a kinder world, a voice like Willas’ whispers, it would have been Aegon Targaryen, who would never had his head smashed open by the Lannisters’ men as an infant. Or perhaps a kind lad who had no crown, but merely respect for her clever mind and a steady wit of his own.)

 

But she must harden her heart. She has her ladies to protect, her sweet cousins who know so very little of what Grandmother and Father want from King’s Landing. She has her brothers to protect, because they are good men, and King’s Landing is not a place where good, honest men thrive. 

 

And she should perhaps pity Lord Tyrion, more. They knew it was likely someone might be suspected of poisoning Joffrey- Strangler was chosen more for speed and reliability than subtlety. She had hoped that an accident would be accepted, as Willas would be very cross with her if his friend fell under suspicion for Joffrey’s death. But Cersei’s fears and suspicions made that impossible, and all the city waited to see what Tywin Lannister would do with his hated son.

 

And Margaery would sit in her mourning garb, pretending grief, and watch as much as she could before her mask started to slip.

 

**Three.**

 

Elinor watches her cousin as carefully as she dares. She is a woman promised, true, but all of her dreams rest on the greatest of the Tyrells, and how skillfully they play the game. 

 

Lady Olenna clearly thinks herself above all of them, for all that people mock her and her son. (Or perhaps  _ because _ of it? She has to admit, if people said she was so awful her husband rode off of a cliff to escape her, then perhaps she would enjoy insulting people who slighted her family.)

 

She is not quite sure why they are all so eager to make Margaery the queen. Part of it, she suspects, is because the Tyrells were nearly as far from court as… as, well, the Martells or the Darrys. For all that the king was an even bigger oaf than Lord Mace was said to be, well, it was a Tyrell army that besieged Storm’s End. Lord Renly took Loras as a squire, of course, earning him an entry into Court, but… well, the Florents were goodfamily to the King’s brother.

 

And, if you followed the rumors and held them to be true, which Elinor suspects Margaery does, then Stannis was, technically, supposed to be king, and the Lannisters pretenders. Which did explain rather a bit.

 

Unfortunately, Elinor also knows that the Florents would seize Highgarden as easily as the King had presented Brightwater Keep to Ser Garlan, and then, well, the Florents and their lot were getting very fond of burning people alive.

 

It was practically Targaryen of them.

 

So they need the Lannisters, at the moment, because Stannis as king would have ended badly for them at nearly any moment, and it will just keep getting worse.

 

At least Tommen seems sweet enough, if young enough for Alysanne. 

 

These are the thoughts following her as the trial starts. It is all very thorough, and portrays a picture of the Imp as a wicked man indeed. Ser Garlan looks uncomfortable at a moment or two, and a few of the Dornish party are looking at each other with skeptical expressions, but no one says a word of protest.

 

Elinor is not entirely sure what to think- it is entirely too convenient, and she has been too close to the mummery side of the Tyrell campaign for supremacy to take it at face value. It lacks a certain elegance. Which is fitting, she supposes. King Joffrey was dripping charm and complements at Margaery, but he only looked at her ladies with contempt or if he had a good view down her bodice. He was not much better with the men, either- he asked plenty of boastful questions about battle that no one, not even Ambrose, wanted to truly answer in detail, but otherwise dismissed them.

 

There is a lack of elegance to it all- it introduces nothing but a cackling villain in a farce, and judging by Lady Olenna’s sighs, this is more of the Lannister’s work than hers.

 

It is strangely comforting, Elinor thinks, remembering the amethyst hairnet Lady Merryweather had leant her, how a stone had gone missing, and no one said a word about it, afterwards.

 

She would not like to help murder someone, even someone as awful as the King had been.

  
  


**Four.**

 

Willas studies the letters, trying to follow the words. It isn’t as if they are not written clearly, or that there is a cipher or code of sorts. At least not that he is aware of, though if there is a second, hidden meaning in this that makes sense…

 

Well, he suspects that there would be a less… damaging message being used, if that was the case. If it could be avoided, no one would be writing a letter to him about things that would make the Lannisters so very unhappy. Especially given the way things have gone so far.  

 

He reaches for his cane, mostly for the reassuring weight, the feel of the embossed metal of the grip in his hand, and takes a deep breath.

 

Perhaps he should listen to Desmera’s japes, and leave empty pots and seed trays under his desk. 

 

Sansa enters, a hound scampering at her feet. She’s wearing her hair loose, a cascade of bloody curls over a grey and white gown, and is possibly the most reassuring thing he could see at the moment.

 

He has done  _ something _ right, at least. Some little bit of good has come out of this all.

 

“What happened now?” she asked, biting her lip. 

 

Part of him wants to shield her from this- she has already seen so much of the horrors of the world, and he knows that Deria and Jynessa took Sansa under their wickedly protective wings just before she was spirited out King’s Landing.

 

But he promised her that he would not lie to her, and she would find out somehow. The Red Viper is a sore spot with much of Highgarden.

 

“Lord Tyrion has demanded a trial by combat- Deria’s letter suggests that it was needed, and judging by what Garlan and Father have said, I have no doubt the Lannisters were so eager to blacken Tyrion’s name that they would…” He stops and Sansa gives a bitter little laugh.

 

“Hold a pretend trial, with pretend evidence?” she finishes, looking older than her years, and impossibly tired. The hound whines, and she gives it a scratch behind the ears. “I know what the Lannisters think of justice, Willas. My father learned that lesson well enough for everyone, I think. Could Lord Tyrion find someone to fight for him?” She blinks, and softens, crossing closer to the desk. “He was… kinder than he needed to be.”

 

He stopped the beatings she received, or at least the public ones, Willas adds, not wanting to get into it. Oberyn and Garlan had both sent him letters about it. 

 

“Prince Oberyn has agreed to fight as Tyrion’s champion,” Willas says, tapping the letter. Deria was weeping as she wrote it, judging by the smears of ink, and once again he wonders if there is slightly more to the odd little healer than he knows.

 

“Prince Oberyn is a good man, then, to fight for the son of a man he loathes,” Sansa says, furrowing her brow. “Though I think I am missing something.”

 

“The other fighter will be Gregor Clegane,” Willas’ voice is flat, and he is trying not to think of his merry, wicked friend, the man who wrote him letters about the world outside of Highgarden and the Reach, who wanted to fix the injustices wrought on his family, think about him dying on a dusty field.

 

Oberyn would make a terrible martyr.

 

“Gregor Clegane?” Sansa squeaks, eyes wide. “My father sent a hundred men after him.”

 

“Aye,” Willas rubs his eyes. “Oberyn undoubtedly has some sort of plan, but… I hope he succeeds. For Ellaria’s sake, and his daughters.”

 

And because the world would be a less exciting place, without him.

 

**Five.**

 

Tyrion looks about at the trial, unease making his gut roil. The Tyrells are there, the twice-widowed Margaery in widow’s black, pale and innocent seeming. 

 

If he needed a suspect… marrying Joff would drive anyone to poison. And Tommen would be such a pliable little catspaw, and his bitch of a sister too self-important to notice.

 

Gods.

 

Ser Garlan gives him a nod, at least, and Lady Merry Crane looks amused as always. He looks away, past the royal box, because looking at his sister would be a foolish idea in a week already piled with them. 

 

(Not to mention Tommen. He couldn’t bear to see Tommen look at him with hate.)

 

The Dornish contingent are there, as well, Jynessa Blackmont and Deria Sand as close as thieves- he  _ did _ wonder if those two were fucking- Lord Dalt watching tolerantly as a squire served drinks. Prince Oberyn was allowing Ellaria Sand to inspect his armor, before giving her a deep kiss. He said something to Deria Sand, who gave him a sharp glare before turning to speak to Arron Qorgyle. 

 

Much to Tyrion’s complete lack of surprise, the Prince does, in fact, have an ulterior motive for agreeing to help him.

 

Namely, in trying to ruin his father, by getting Clegane to confess to murdering Princess Elia and her son, after Tywin swore that Amory Lorch had murdered them and the little girl.

 

“You murdered her, you murdered her son,” he says. “Now, confess.”

 

The Dornish contingent looks very interested in this. So, much to Tyrion’s amusement, did the nominally loyal Crownlanders, as well as the common folk of the city. 

 

All of whom had suffered horribly during the Sack, and had Princess Elia companions? Most likely, Queen Rhaella had them, and what had happened to those unlucky ladies?

 

His father had a talent for making enemies.

 

There is a flash of light where the Prince hamstrung Clegane, and the big man howls, an unholy noise that silences everyone, and he swears he sees the Prince nearly stumble in shock.

 

“Confess,” the Prince smiles, sharp and fierce. “I hear it is good for the soul. Especially when the gods themselves start meddling in your affairs.”

 

Maidensword, blood roses, thorns of judgement, there was a book when Tyrion was miserably ill as a young lad, about men so wicked the gods needed to interfere.

 

The ground trembles, and the light continues, bright dots of red and white that made Clegane slap at himself in his armor, and Tyrion wonders how this ends his trial.

 

“I confess,” Clegane starts, and the entire arena is silent. 

 

His father is sour and silent, watching yet another crack appear in his legacy.

  
  


**Six.**

 

Garlan is not entirely certain how the trial ended as it did. 

 

The Mountain is dead. There were evidently the smell of some sort of funeral flowers in the armor as the man died, phantom bruises and breaks up and down his body before his heart gave out. 

 

Prince Oberyn had his confession before then, though. First to murder of Princess Elia and her son, and then a series of other horrors, including the man’s poor wives. And his sister, and father.

 

Very few people, as far as he could tell, believed that Lord Tywin could not have known what sort of man he was. He protected the man over the years, kept him as a pet monster, and profited from that brutality. 

 

A disgrace, it was. Not to mention Uncle Baelor’s dry prediction that giving Nightsong, the prize keep of the  _ Marches _ , to some Westerlands nobody with no ties to the area, was going to cause tensions. And Cousin Desmera’s annoyance at losing the Lannister betrothal to the Freys. 

 

...Garlan was not the most subtle of men, but he was perfectly aware that the Lannisters were barely trying to hide their involvement in the massacre at the Twins. Did they think the Reacher lords would  _ approve _ ? Especially since sweet little Sansa Stark was now married to Willas, and Margaery and the maidens approved the match themselves?

 

Plus the various inheritance tangles, even if that was more Leonette’s area of interest. She liked tracing the thorny trees and legal precedents. (He suspected the answer was “whoever has the better army or support” more than she’d like, but life was often unfair. That was why they needed to work to try to better it.)

 

Hmm. Perhaps, given Lord Tywin’s continuing desire to disinherit Lord Tyrion and Lord Tyrion having no heirs, Princess Myrcella and her Martell prince would rule the Rock. That would be an interesting outcome. Something to mention to Willas, at least.

 

**Seven.**

 

Willas looks at the letter, then throws back the rest of his wine, wishing he was the careless sort. 

 

It was a very simple sort of letter, from Lynesse. His cousin was a very… sharp woman. He supposed she needed to be. Her eldest sister was Lady of Highgarden, and she was married off rather suddenly to a tourney champion who was poor in gold and poor in judgement, considering how things turned out. (Willas always wondered if there was a reason his grandfather was so eager to marry Lynesse off, but his aunts’ marriages made little sense to anyone. He suspected Grandfather had merely paid little attention to that sort of thing.)

 

In the end of it, she was mistress to an Lyseni nobleman, evidently in her own version of contentment, and they heard very little from her.

 

Willas looks at the letter again, which is addressed to Alerie Tyrell or her children, in neat, spiky writing that was much like his mother’s, smeared slightly as if the writer used her left hand.

 

He studies the message, then places it on the desk, reaching for his cane. He’ll need to send a raven, he supposes.

 

“Dragons are coming, she says,” he grumbles. “The Golden Company is coming. Comforting news, for once, please.”


End file.
